


Redeem Yourself

by eibul



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Dominance, Footjob, Forced Masturbation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masochism, Master/Slave, Non Consensual, Sadism, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:14:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eibul/pseuds/eibul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr pays for his actions in Soloman's temple in a way he never imagined. DomMalik/SubAltaïr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redeem Yourself

The ride to Jerusalem had been slow and tiring. He could feel the horse beneath him shrug and slouch toward the end of the journey. He whispered a few soothing words and slipped off its muscled back, patting the horse’s head in praise. Animals were much easier to deal with than people. They didn’t talk back, snap or judge. When tired, animals were the perfect companions. Altaïr, dressed in his slightly dusted white robes, shifted his chin up to gaze at the sky. Dusk was near. Then he’d have an excuse to rest at the bureau.

The golden gaze slid to face the towers of the city. He would have to figure a way to slide in, but he doubted it would be a problem for a master assassin. _Former_ master assassin, of course. He dug his heels into the dirt as he walked steadily with his tired horse, holding the reins tightly in his clenched fists. To be stripped of his title was gut-wrenchingly and most painfully, the worst punishment. Altaïr strived off his status; he had earned it by his own right. Yet he had been too arrogant, due to Al Mualim’s thinking. And _Malik_ , well, he didn’t help at all by bringing back the treasure they were sent for – with only one useable arm.

The assassin pursed his lips and pushed the anger to the back of his mind. There was no use now. With a few final steps, he left his horse beside the water trough, giving it a scratch on the nose in thanks. He felt the weariness cling onto him as he scoped the area, eyes trying to focus on where the guards were, potential hiding spots, escape routes and climbing positions. His brows rose as he noted some guards in a more hidden area surrounding an innocent scholar, and Altaïr took his chance.

He slipped forward, absolutely invisible in the open crowd. Silence was the key. He pressed his back against the outside of the walled area, of where the beating occurred past them. Without another hesitant thought, he lurched around the corner. Eyes flashed as he chose in target in a matter of seconds, flicking his finger outward to extend his hidden blade. A grunt concluded the death of the guard. The blade sunk deep into his neck.

It took the other guards a few moments to register what had happened, and by that time, Altaïr had leapt into the air to strike again, this time, his knife drawn. He lifted his feet a little higher whilst his glided, so that they came hurtling down onto the guard’s chest as the assassin grounded. The guard made a whimpered sound, and then no more, as the knife plunged several times into his stomach.

A sudden pain smacked his cheek: a fist. The last harasser had flung himself at the robed fighter, throwing his fists in a desperate need. Altaïr lifted a hand to his face, feeling the blood drip from his lips. He growled lowly and forced his own fist at the guard’s face, crushing his nose beneath his knuckles. “Mercy!” Sounded the remaining guard, lifting his hands up to his face, sword clattering to the floor. Altaïr snorted and in a single, swift movement, threw one of his smaller knives straight into the face of the templar. His body stilled, swayed, and dropped.

“T–Thank you,” stuttered, the scholar, unsure if he should be wary or grateful. “Any longer and they would have had me. Is that the last of them?”

“Yes.” Altaïr grunted, not wanting to listen to his thanks. He wanted help inside the city, and that was all he wanted.

“Good, good. But I will not wait around to find out.” He shuddered, and glanced over his shoulder, beckoning to someone, yet the assassin did not see whom. Four robed men came forth, eyes sliding over the armed man before their friend. “We will help you.” The saved scholar hushed, and gently pushed Altaïr into the centre of their small protective circle.

Rightly so, Altaïr managed to move straight past the guards without raising suspicion. He had kept his head low to hide his bloodied lip, and could only have hoped that they did not notice his bloodied robes and weapons. Not that they would care for some measly scholars, anyway. Without even giving thanks, Altaïr slipped out of the disguise and took to the rooftops, searching for the familiar bureau.

Though the templars were on his back constantly, he had reached the bureau safe, listening out for the sound of running water. The familiar assassin insignia carved beautifully into the flooring threw him into nostalgia. Altaïr stood still, breath held tightly, and then slipped down when the coast was clear. Gorgeously decorated as it was, it was not always good to rest on the hard, stone floor. His boots patted gently against it.

He soon realised why Al Mualim sported a smirk as he ordered his novice to visit the Jerusalem Dai. Both heads lifted, eyes locked, and they acknowledged each other with disdain.

“Safety and peace, Malik.” Altaïr groaned tiredly.

“Your presence here deprives me of both.” The other spat, turning his side to face Altaïr. Golden eyes widened in shock, but of course. The assassin’s failed mission had cost Malik’s arm, and his brother, yet it had stunned him when he noticed Malik’s dangling sleeve. “What do you want?”

“Al Mualim has asked-“

“That you redeem yourself.” Malik finished dryly, a smirk playing upon his lips. Altaïr’s teeth clenched, wanting to throw his fist at the other’s face. “Have you already forgotten how to fight, novice?” he added, pressing a finger to his lip. Altaïr shadowed the action and felt wetness, remembering the punch delivered to him earlier.

“Are you quite finished?” he snapped, furrowing his brows angrily at the Dai.

“No,” Malik coolly replied, hate and disgust _dripping_ from his tone. Altaïr rolled his eyes; he was too weary to deal with this.

“I am going to rest—“

“I said _no_. I am not finished.” Malik interrupted, beckoning the assassin over with his single hand. His shoulders tensed slightly, Altaïr could see, and he then clenched his fist. His demeanour had changed every so slightly. “I have this to show you.”

Now? Altaïr thought grudgingly, moving behind the bureau desk. His eyes shifted to the maps on the wooden surface, not seeing anything new at all. “What is it?” he snapped impatiently.

His head smashed hard against the counter and he let out a long groan, lifting his hands to clutch his head. It was pounding and pounding with pain, and he was so sure his skull had been cracked. Confusion. Malik? He felt a fist to his mouth for the second time that day and his back pressed against the desk, eyes fuzzy. He desperately tried to focus, fingers scuttling his robes for his hidden blade before his hazy mind remembered it was within his hand then -- he couldn’t move. The searing pain had paralysed him for the moment, head lolling to the side. He grit his teeth. He was weak. Had Malik noticed this?

He had. But he would not take the chance. His wrists were pulled tightly together in front of his body, rough ropes causing painful friction against his skin. Too tight. He could already feel his blood struggling to pass through his restricted veins.

“Everything is your fault,” Malik growled, gripping Altaïr’s robe neckline with his fist, trying to tighten it as much as he could with one hand. “Your arrogance led to the death of my brother. You _killed_ Kadar. And this?” he chuckled, flapping the sleeve a little with his fragile stump. “You looked so surprised, novice. This is the result of your petty, big-headed ego.” His eyes were flashing with fury, yet a hint of sadness, as if he was about to burst into tears, flickered behind. He re-applied his pressure onto Altaïr’s neck, bringing himself back to earth. “How could you?”

Altaïr only stared back at him. His eyes did not leave Malik’s for a second, and his lashes only fluttered when the heavy panting of Malik’s rage flew against them. “Malik,” he began. He paused. He had nothing to say. Nothing he could say could fix anything, and Malik was right – he knew that. The Dai was so close to strangling him in his rage, but Altaïr knew he would not. Too, Altaïr would not kill Malik. He was not a friend, nor an enemy, but Al Mualim would be less than impressed if he heard word of a dead Dai at the hand of the former master assassin.

“How could you, Altaïr?” He flung the assassin against the counter and stepped forward, suddenly pressing his lips against the bloodied ones before him. Altaïr tried to stumble back but forgot he was pressed firmly against the wood. His constrained hands lifted, groaning in the process due to the pins and needles, and were about the shove the man from his chest but Malik pulled away first, pushing a sharp object against his stomach in warning. “You will not defy me, boy.” He huffed lowly, and slowly, Altaïr’s hands lowered.

Such a simple, blunt sentence, and his heart had crumpled. How could he refuse him? He had to pay for his actions. This was his obligation. He was too tired to fight a useless fight. Malik roughly pressed his body against Altaïr’s and latched onto his lips once more. The assassin did not kiss back. It was rough, hard, and senseless. It was a kiss to demonstrate power and control. Nothing more. Stubble scratched against stubble.

“What slave needs clothes?” He mouthed against the other’s lips.

“What?” Altaïr’s voice staggered a little. Though the assassin had been stripped of his status, Malik was now going to personally strip him of his pride and enjoy every minute of it. Altaïr hesitated.

“Do I need to ask twice? Or are you going to decide to follow orders this time?”

Altaïr’s heart was thumping ridiculously against his rib cage as he stared. Stared hard.

“You mean to harass me as punishment?” he snorted, words slipping messily from his torn lips. Malik slid his fingers inside the other’s hood and flipped it down, revealing his rarely viewed face. Next were his robes. Altaïr, refusing to allow himself be undressed by _him_ , struggled to untie his own belt with his hurt hands. The pounding in his head was too much. Malik made an unimpressed sound and untied the knot at the back himself, letting it fall to the floor. Altaïr breathed heavily, groaning now and then as he tried to keep himself conscious. His lean, tightly muscled body glistened with sweat and Malik slid him from the robes, even removing his undergarments. Weapons littered the floor and the scholar kicked them away into the far corner, the metal scraping and clattering against the wall.

Malik looked him up and down, frowning. “Whore.” He snapped once more, smacking the back of his hand against Altaïr’s navel. The assassin winced, a small groan escaping from his lips. The exact same spot where he had felt Al Mualim plunge the knife into his skin – though it was not real, a mere illusion, every feeling; every nerve had clutched onto the false reality. No wound. Just pain. Malik cracked a smile as he watched the other wince and recoil a little. Finally he had Altaïr in his grasp. At his will.

Altaïr grit his teeth. Fists clenched around the edge of the counter. “This is not the way to—“

“My way is _better_.”

Golden eyes snapped up furiously, noting the mockery. He had said the same thing himself in Soloman’s Temple, before jumping down to face Robert De Sable, making the biggest mistake. Malik let out a chuckle, flipping the underside of the knife against the novice’s neck and gave a curt nod. He was clearly enjoying this. “Is that not right, novice? Arrogance is not the best trait, no?”

Malik’s eyes brushed over him, taking in the sight of dimples, shapes and veins. His lips parted ever so slightly and a small sigh escaped. Muscles flexed under the moonlight shining through the archway as Altaïr revealed his naked self a little more. Malik raised his brows like it was everything he had expected. Scars and war wounds seemed to decorate the body instead, darkened lines jutted across the olive skin.

“I do not understand—“

“You do not _speak_.” Malik hissed, threatening him once more with the knife pressed against his neck. Lips smacked shut. The knife trailed down his skin and poked just above his genitals, earning a worried grunt. “Touch yourself.” Malik ordered.

“ _No_.” Altaïr murmured.

A snort. “Do you not see who is in charge here? Who has the higher status? Who has the upper hand?” He jabbed the other with his knife a little, causing a scratch on his navel. Altaïr winced and coiled backward. “Who helped you in Soloman’s Temple? Kadar and I could have left you there to die, but we did not. We aided you in your ridiculous plan. And this is where you have ended up. Like a little dog.”

Altaïr’s ego fizzled away in a single second. His demeanour had been swapped with Malik’s: _he_ stood tall, towering over his victim, whereas Altaïr hunched, back pressed against the bureau counter.

“I know of your little secret, Altaïr. How you watch the men in the training ring at dusk. How you get aroused at the sight of a male body. I have seen the women retreat from your quarters looking none other than unsatisfied.” Malik smirked.

Altaïr’s eyes snapped up in horror. How did he… He flushed red. His face grew hotter and hotter, knowing those dark eyes were glaring down at him. He was right. He preferred the rough texture of skin, the muscles, the strong jaw lines, the gravely voices.

“Nothing is true. Everything is permitted. Though I am sure the assassins would exclude _your_ case.” Malik tapped his outer thigh with the side of the knife. Altaïr scowled. He was being blackmailed.

Hands hesitantly reached downward. He hissed, the ropes scratching defiantly against his wrists. It felt as if they were carving down against his veins; that was torture itself.

With bloodied fingers he palmed his manhood, and it was only then that he realised he was already aroused. Malik released a curt chortle and a smirk, his eyes roaming over the view before him. The Great Altaïr, forced to masturbate in front of his most disliked assassin brother.

Altaïr couldn’t bear to look at his captor. His eyes were either closed or fixed onto his feet, fingers trying to resist pulling harder at his foreskin. He grunted.

“Getting excited, my boy?” Malik chuckled, sucking in his lips. This feeling of being dominated was ecstasy. His pleasure intensified; how he was _his boy_ , how he was being tamed like an animal, how he was subject to anything that Malik wanted. His head lolled back. He couldn’t resist but thrust into his hands a little, much to Malik’s pleasure. “Yes,” he hummed lowly, scraping the edge of the knife dangerously close to a nipple. Altaïr huffed, finding it almost impossible to stop to groans forming in his throat. His hands scantily passed over the wet tip of his shaft, pre-cum dripping down between his legs.

He was getting close. His glistening chest heaved up and down with each breath, each groan. Malik knew this. “Stop.” He halted him. Altaïr’s eyes flickered up, brows furrowed in confusion, and continued. He didn’t want to stop. The pleasure was too much to _stop_. Malik released an understanding yet unimpressed grunt. “You defy me?” he threatened, and raised the knife to his imagined wound. The very spot where Al Mualim had pierced his skin, Malik angrily sliced the knife against it. Altaïr let out a cry and lifted his hands over the wound; as shallow as it was, it was incredibly painful.

“You—“

“Ah!” Malik waved the knife in front of his face, preventing Altaïr from speaking any more. “Say another word and I will have to punish you.” The novice shuddered. It stung. It stung badly and he could feel the blood dripping like tears down his thigh. This wasn’t helping him with his light-headedness.

“Then punish me.” Altaïr sneered.

There was a long pause. Suddenly, the assassin’s heart dropped. Fingers dug into his sides and flung him around, a piece of musky fabric tied around his eyes - the belt? Tied with that single hand and most likely teeth, as he could feel Malik's chin resting against the back of his head, his chest was smashed against the counter. Malik pushed him over and over until he was laying on his front, nipples erect against the cold wood. Altaïr’s hands hung over the side; ropes still painfully slowly cutting off his blood supply.

And silence. The breath in Altaïr’s throat hitched quickly. His body began to shake. “M-Malik,” he shuddered huskily, trying to turn over without making his open wound worse. And then the pain came. He didn’t know what it was, but it struck hard, _hard_ against his buttocks, causing him to yelp out and thrust against the counter in attempt to get away from the pain. His breathing turned rash and he uttered a curse under his breath as the silence came again. He didn’t know what was happening, or when it was going to happen. But did he hate it?

He was struck again with extreme accuracy. The loud slap echoed in the bureau and he was hit again, again, and again, and few more times without break. Altaïr’s entire figure had tensed, pressed up against the counter as far as he could go, legs shivering as they tried to uphold his aching body. He was surely raw red.

“You asked for punishment,” a deep voice sounded from behind. “And you coil like a little mouse? It seems as though you always make wrong decisions.” Altaïr growled in response, knees beginning to buckle. Another smack to his backside came, yet it was lighter, and not as hard. “Do not fall.” It was Malik’s hand. He could tell by the way it smoothed over the bruises; the calluses rough proof of a former fighter. Instead of twisting away from the touch, he felt himself lean into it. The cooling hand calmed him. It was relaxing, like a reward.

“I suppose there _are_ better uses for this book other than recording templar deaths.” Malik seemed to snicker. So it was a hardback. No wonder it hurt. “Have you learnt your lesson?”

Altaïr sucked in his lips, not moving an inch. “Yes…” he murmured.

“Hm?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, _what?”_ Malik spat, patting the red buttocks in front of him teasingly with his the book.

“Malik,” Altaïr let out another cry as the book came hurtling down on his skin once more. He choked out a couple of breaths, legs spread to keep him standing.

“ _Master._ You will call me Master. Understood?”

Altaïr raised a brow underneath the fabric hiding his sight. Really? Is this how it was going to be now? He hissed. He didn’t want to be hit again. The last thing he wanted was punishment.

“Yes… _Master._ ” He grumbled, spitting out the word like hot fire. Malik was not impressed, but it would have to do.

Malik reached out with a hand and smoothed it over the burning marks again, much to Altaïr’s relief. “Now, there was no need for that, was there?” He calmed softly. He pressed his fully clothed self up against Altaïr, roughly presenting his hardness under his robes. The noise that sounded from Altaïr’s throat was priceless and had Malik smirking. He pressed a kiss to the tanned back and slid his hand around the other’s front, slipping his palm down into the crooks of the novice’s groin.

He was still erect. An embarrassment for Altaïr; but a winning prize for the Dai. His rough hand gripped hold of Altaïr’s manhood, stroking it ever so lightly. The body writhed underneath him, grunting and groaning. It was obvious he wanted it over and done with, but Malik would take his time. He would take his time claiming what he had lusted after for years; he would take his time making him pay for his rash actions. He felt the shaft harden more in his fingers, pre-cum working as a perfect lubricant and a perfect tool of embarrassment as the wet sounds filled the room.

“Please…”

Malik let out a long groan in response to the beg, speeding up his hand movements as well as thrusting his clothed groin between the two pert, red cheeks.

Altaïr couldn’t take it much longer. The way Malik was rubbing his already stinging backside was somehow sensual, and the way he had his hand gripped tight and fast around his cock was even more mind-blowing. His body tensed, fists clenching into tight balls as he felt himself come to his climax. His shoulder blades lifted and legs spread, cum shooting onto the desk and floor.

“Did I say you could release?” Malik grunted angrily, leaving Altaïr confused – he was already light-headed from his high, finding it hard to catch his breath. The hand grabbed his side and flipped his back around, urging him off the desk. Malik forced him to his knees and he snarled down at Altaïr, sitting him in his own white mess on the floor. “ _Novice._ ” He spat. “Untie my belt and use your mouth.” 

Altaïr hesitantly gave a curt nod. His hands clumsily fumbled at his robes as they were _still_ painfully tied, but he managed to separate them. Malik didn’t give him a chance to admire the view. He gripped the back of Altaïr’s head and led his mouth to his shaft, pressing into between the slightly bloody lips. He let out a groan. There were teeth involved, and a great lack of tongue, much to Malik’s disappointment, but he was grinning down at Altaïr’s growing erection. “Nymphomaniac,” he breathed.

Altaïr shuddered as he felt something brush against his erection. “Let us see if I can make you release just with my foot, hm?” Malik chuckled excitedly, stroking with pressure. On his knees, they started to push apart, allowing and wanting more access. Though there were tears in his eyes as he tried to swallow down Malik’s shaft, he was feeling ecstatic. Even he could make Malik moan. He couldn’t get enough. Malik sped up his foot movements and pressure, mumbling, “Come for your Master,” and Altaïr felt his body tense as he came suddenly, thigh muscles tensing. His shut his eyes tightly, groaning wordlessly against the erection in his mouth. He felt Malik’s fingers dig deep into his hair and then the liquid began shooting at the back of his throat. Altaïr choked, nostrils flaring, but Malik held him tight in place, forcing him to swallow down. “Good boy,” The dominant praised, releasing his grip on his slave’s head.

Altaïr coughed and spluttered as he tried to get his breath back, his throat burning intensely. What was he to do now? He was exhausted, physically and mentally. From being struck in a fight before he even reached the Jerusalem gates, to being chased by guards, and then attacked and blackmailed by his very own assassin brother – it was too much. His head lolled down and rest against his shoulder, breath short yet steady. Cum dribbled down his chin, his navel and his thighs, and his legs were covered in it too from where he had been forced to sit in his own.

“Up.” Malik ordered. Altaïr shook his head tiredly. With a sigh, the Dai reached around and untied the blindfold from his eyes. Altaïr squinted; though the light was dim and musk, it took some time to adjust to. A hand gently took hold under his arm and lifted him up, prompting Altaïr to help using his legs, and sat him on top of the counter. A hiss came from his parted lips: his body ached ridiculously; open stomach wounds, cracked head, raw buttocks, sore wrists…

And with that, Malik lifted his knife and brought it close once more.

“No…” Altaïr whispered, using the last of his energy to curl away. He didn’t need any more pain. He needed stitches. He needed comfort. He needed sleep.

“Fool,” came a reply, and the ropes keeping his wrists tight together was sawed free. Altaïr let out a groan and stroked the purple marks – swollen.

“Why?” the wounded man croaked. Malik paused, staring down at him. He said nothing. The only movement he made was a slight pull of his lips and a shaky exhale.

Instead, he drew out a cloth, beginning to wipe down the dirtied body. A hand pressed against his arm and he stopped, eyes lifting to meet Altaïr’s. They were filled with flaring anger, his brows furrowed. “Why?” the man repeated, this time more demanding. Malik was about to part his lips before he noticed Altaïr’s head lolling to the side again. The hand slipped dully from his skin and his naked body fell backwards. Malik quickly gripped hold of Altaïr, but he was gone; asleep, unconscious.

He had cleaned and dressed his wounds, and without another word, he slunk Altaïr back into his robes, tying the belt loosely around his bandages.

“How would you feel if the one you loved betrayed you?” he murmured quietly. “You turned on us. You became someone I no longer knew or understood. I needed to own you. I needed to dominate you. I had to bring you back.” The words flew from his lips, and then he was done. He rest Altäir on the pillows at the side of the bureau with a struggle due to his handicap, propping him up against the wall and then retreated back to his desk to clean the area.

Nobody would have the slightest idea, despite the smell of sex, if they entered. The weapons lay neatly on the floor, and Altaïr looked like he just needed a good sleep. Malik dropped his head in his hand and let out a long sigh. “Everything is permitted,” he reminded himself. His lust had driven him down a road that used to be just a fantasy, where he would dream of controlling the former Master Assassin to the very core.

This was all for himself. He wanted Altaïr.


End file.
